


there is a truth; there is a light

by sweetestsight



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: 1990's, Alien Abduction, Humor, Multi, PLEASE read notes for trigger warnings, Violence, i swear this is light, the x files au nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27516754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestsight/pseuds/sweetestsight
Summary: In 1989 the disappearances started; in 1989 everything changed. It's been three years now, and Freddie isn't sure what he wants more: the truth, or just the closure that comes with it.Or: the alien abduction au nobody asked for
Relationships: Eventual Poly, Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Comments: 22
Kudos: 16





	there is a truth; there is a light

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Violence and blood but nothing too graphic; mentions of gun violence but no actual gun violence. That's it for this chapter, but I'll update the beginning notes for each chapter so that it's current!

He hates standing guard. He hates being the muscle. Honestly, he almost has it in him to hate Roger.

“Why couldn’t you call Crystal for this?” Freddie hisses at him.

Roger rolls his eyes, not bothering to look up from the filing cabinet he’s working on. He’s got a tension rod rammed into the lock, holding it steady while he jiggles the little—whatever it is in the upper part. Freddie doesn’t know. Roger had tried to teach him to pick locks with rather lackluster results, hence why he’s the one doing the lockpicking and Freddie is the one standing guard.

“Crystal was busy,” Roger says, giving the tools another little wiggle.

“So? He couldn’t have at least offered me a gun or something?”

“You know how to shoot a gun?”

“No,” Freddie huffs.

Roger snorts at him. “That’d be why he didn’t offer you one, then.”

Freddie rolls his balaclava up onto his forehead, taking a moment to rub a hand over his face. He hates breaking and entering, quite honestly. It always makes him a little nervous, as good as he’s getting at hiding it. It took him only a month or two to realize that nobody is calm during jobs like this, and that at least made him feel better. It’s not about how calm you are, it’s about how good you are at hiding that you’re terrified out of your wits.

Except for Roger. Freddie is pretty sure that Roger gets off on it.

Freak.

“Besides,” Roger continues with a sunny smile, as if he’s not currently breaking into a file cabinet in a warehouse owned by the fucking Russian mob, of all things, “you know I like having you around better.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

“But we have so much fun together, honey,” Roger murmurs. “Stealing shit, getting shot at…”

“I want you to know there’s a special seat in hell reserved just for you,” Freddie tells him sweetly.

“Yeah, it’s called your lap,” Roger snorts. “Best seat in the house.”

He turns the lock and it opens with one final clunk. He cheers softly under his breath as the drawer slides open.

“Alright,” Freddie says softly. “Get what you need and let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Roger says, already flipping through the files. “It’s a mess in here, you know. They’ve got a lot of stuff on these guys.”

“When the mafia ends up robbing secret air force bases for weapons that tends to happen,” Freddie reasons. “And then when MI5 opens files on it. And then when the mafia ends up stealing those files from MI5, and then when we end up stealing those files from the mafia.”

“I know,” Roger gripes, flicking through the files. “I don’t need a whole rundown of events here, you know. Shit, these are horribly organized…”

“Fuck,” Freddie gripes. “Let me help you.”

“No, you’ve got to—”

A muffled shout echoes from down the hall.

Both of them freeze, barely daring to breathe. Freddie counts the seconds: one, two, three—

Roger turns to whisper into his ear. “Did you hear—”

Outside, metal scrapes concrete. Freddie swears and turns off his torch, plunging the catwalk on which they’re standing into darkness. He doesn’t do it a moment too soon; mere seconds later the tall doors at one end of the warehouse are being pushed inward, three people rushing through.

Freddie’s hand shoots out to get a death grip on Roger’s arm, and he leans back against the cabinets as far as he can. Blessedly, the people below them don’t seem too focused on what’s going on above them; they don’t seem to be terribly focused on their surroundings at all. Two men continue to march through the warehouse, dodging crates and boxes that Freddie can only guess at the contents of, dragging the slight frame of a third between them.

“Freddie,” Roger hisses. He nods to the ladder at the end of the catwalk, but Freddie shakes his head. Not now; they can’t move now or they’ll be caught.

The group continues through the warehouse until they reach the edge of the concrete floor, the ground dropping away into water where the loading dock begins. The man they’re carrying goes tumbling as they let go of him abruptly, and they watch as he rolls over and coughs weakly into his fist.

“Freddie,” Roger whispers again. When Freddie looks at him this time he nods down at the man, giving Freddie a pointed look.

Freddie shakes his head.

“They’re going to kill him,” Roger mouths.

“They’re going to kill _us_ ,” Freddie mouths back.

A long string of Russian echoes up from below them. The man on the ground doesn’t react to the words, and a moment later his companions switch to English. Freddie frowns, leaning forward to hear better, but he can only catch every third word or so.

“Fred,” Roger whispers more frantically.

Freddie shakes his head.

One of the men hauls their victim back to his feet, his hand fisted in the collar of his suit. “I’m not lying,” the inured man says, the first words that Freddie has been able to catch clearly. “I’ll cut a deal with you.”

The goon laughs. He says something unintelligible to his companion, and Freddie only sees the knife flash silver in the low light once before it’s being plunged into the victim’s torso.

Roger draws a sharp breath, his hand gripping Freddie’s arm hard enough to bruise.

The man pulls out the knife, releases the man’s collar to punch him square in the face and lets his body fall into the dark murk of the Thames below. The two mafia men peer over the edge of the dock, but whatever they see appears to satisfy them. They turn back the way they came, walking through the warehouse and closing the tall door behind themselves.

Roger bursts into movement as soon as the door clangs shut.

“Roger!” Freddie hisses.

“He might be alive,” Roger replies. “We have to help him!”

“Help him? We don’t even know what they wanted with him!”

“I don’t care. First, do no harm.”

“Have you forgotten you’re a dental school _dropout?_ ” Freddie hisses, turning and bumping into the open file cabinet.

The file cabinet. Right.

He turns, sorting through the files quickly. If Roger couldn’t find it then he’ll just have to do it himself. He thinks he remembers the name they’re looking for, anyway. What was it—Hardfordshire? Heatford? Something like that.

“Freddie, he’s alive,” Roger calls from below.

He flicks through file after file, pausing when he finds it. Heathfield. That’s the name. Heathfield.

“We need to go, _now._ ”

“Yep,” Freddie calls.

“He’s bleeding, Fred. He’s going to die.”

“How long do you think he has?”

“What do you mean how long? This is a man’s life. We can’t afford to wait!”

Freddie swears under his breath, grabbing the entire stack of files under that name. He shoves them into the back of his waistband and pulls his jacket over them the way he used to shoplift records as a kid, before running across the catwalk and all but throwing himself down the ladder.

Roger is crouching on the floor, his torso dripping water onto the concrete. He’s no match for the man in front of him, who appears to be half-dead. Blood is staining the entire lower half of his face and the collar of his plain, rather boring looking suit. More worrying is the red that’s spreading across the front of his torso underneath the bundled fabric of Roger’s black overshirt, which Roger is pressing down against the wound.

“He’s out,” Roger says. “Help me carry him. We don’t have much time.”

“Fuck,” Freddie hisses. He crouches beside Roger, helping him lift the man. He’s wiry but definitely not weak; Freddie can feel hard muscle beneath his baggy suit. It’s certainly doing them no favors in carrying him, and if that wasn’t bad enough then the sodden material is weighing them down even more.

“Through there,” Roger hisses, dragging the three of them toward the side door. Freddie almost stumbles trying to keep up, and between them the man groans.

“I know,” Freddie mutters to him. “Hang in there, dear. Please don’t be an evil crook who’s going to stab us both on the way to the hospital.”

The man groans again.

Roger manages to get the door open, the piece of paper they stuck into the latch to keep it from locking falling away at the movement. They manage to hobble through, walking in an odd gait toward the car that’s parked in the shadows of the warehouse.

“Take him into the back,” Roger tells him. “You need to keep pressure on that wound. I don’t think it managed to hit anything major and it’s not too deep, but…”

“I’ve got it,” Freddie says. He opens the door and slides into the seat, shimmying until he’s on the other side. It’s only then that he gets an arm under the man and drags him in after him.

“Careful!” Roger scolds as the man groans.

“Get in,” Freddie hisses. “We need to get out of here. Come on.”

Roger huffs, but he slams the door behind them before climbing into the driver’s seat and starting the engine.

Freddie pauses to look down at the man whose head is resting in his lap. It’s hard to tell through the blood and grime on his face, but he looks quite young. He brushes a long strand of sodden brown hair off of his forehead. Quite young—younger than Freddie and Roger, even. He’s not sure why someone like him might be in a place like this.

“Shit!” Roger yelps.

Freddie looks up quickly, catching sight of two goons leaning against the outer wall of the warehouse—the same men who had tried to kill the man currently bleeding all over their backseat.

“Fuck,” Freddie gripes. “Of course they weren’t gone. They were gonna come check on him to make sure he’s really dead. Rog, if we die for this man—”

“They’re not coming after us for that!”

“Then why?”

“Because we just drove away from their fucking warehouse at top speed!” Roger screeches. “Why do you think?”

Freddie turns to look out the back window just in time to catch sight of headlights glaring on the other side of the warehouse. “They’re following us,” he says.

“I know that! Do something!”

“What do you want me to do?” he screeches. “Shoot at them? With the gun Crystal refused to give me?”

“You don’t even know how to shoot!”

“Then what do you want me to do?!”

“I don’t know! Throw something at them! Moon them! Who gives a shit?”

Freddie huffs, reaching down to steady the man in his lap as they take a turn particularly harshly. His hand falls on the man’s hip, and he freezes. He looks down at the man once more, reaching for his suit jacket and tugging it aside gently.

There’s a gun strapped to his hip.

“Roger,” he calls. “This guy has a fucking gun.”

“So?” Roger snaps, swerving into traffic. The car behind them follows right on their heels.

“So he has a fucking gun!” Freddie snaps. He doesn’t hesitate before reaching into the guy’s pocket, unearthing his wallet. He digs through it—coupons, a few bills, an ID card identifying him as a one John Deacon, and a— “He’s a spy, Roger! You put a fucking spy in our fucking car!”

“What?” Roger snaps.

“He’s in MI5! You saved a spy!”

“Maybe we’ll get a medal from the queen,” Roger yells sarcastically, changing lanes. Around them, people honk.

“Roger, this is serious!” Freddie yells. “The mob were trying to kill this kid! He’s armed, he has a badge—”

“They were probably trying to kill him for investigating crime or something.”

“Roger, _we’re_ criminals!”

“We’re morally righteous criminals. There’s a difference.” He turns the wheel hand-over-hand, whipping them around a tight turn.

Freddie considers the gun still tucked into the holster. “I’m gonna shoot at the other car,” he decides.

“Freddie, _do not_ shoot at the other car.”

“No, I’m gonna. We need to take them out.”

“Do not do that!”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t know how to shoot a fucking gun!”

They swerve around another corner, Freddie cursing as he’s pressed into the inside of the door.

A hand curls around his wrist.

He looks down and is met with cool grey eyes blinking up at him. The man—John—gasps as the car straightens again, jostling them in the backseat. He grimaces even as his fingers tighten around Freddie’s wrist.

“We’re gonna get you some help, alright, dear?” Freddie tells him quickly. “Hang in there. You’ll be okay.”

John groans. “Don’t touch my gun,” he slurs.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Freddie squeaks.

Roger takes a few right turns in quick succession, immediately slowing as he pulls back onto Oxford Street and turning to glance over his shoulder. “I think we lost them,” he says hesitantly.

Freddie frowns. “You’re sure?”

“No. What do you say we cross our fingers and make a break for it to the hospital?”

“Yeah,” Freddie replies. He glances down, but John’s eyes are closed once more, his fingers still grasping Freddie’s wrist. Blood is oozing through Roger’s makeshift bandage, and Freddie swallows down a wave of nausea. “Yeah, I think we’d better.”

They manage to get John checked in with only a few skeptical looks from the receiving nurse at their all-black getups. Freddie had only just managed to remember not to wear his balaclava into the hospital itself. That surely would’ve gone over well.

Nonetheless, they manage to slip away unnoticed in the midst of the rush to get John into a gurney and rushed down the hall toward the A&E. Freddie watches as one nurse presses a finger to John’s pulse while another pushes a clean bandage against his wound. The receiving nurse is just beginning to gather together paperwork for the two of them to sign when Roger taps the inside of Freddie’s wrist, nodding toward the door.

“Well,” Freddie says to nobody in particular as they climb into the car. “So long, John Deacon. Suppose that’s the last we’ll ever see of you.”

“We can only hope,” Roger retorts. “Do you want to grab food somewhere before we head home? An early breakfast, maybe?”

“What time is it?”

“Five.”

Freddie groans, letting his head thump back against the headrest. “Fuck. I can’t believe we still have to drive all the way back.”

“You’re not the one who has to do all the driving,” Roger snorts, starting the engine. “Come on, let’s get food. I could use a rest before we get on the move. Besides, we need to drown our sorrows in something now that this whole thing has turned out to be a complete failure.”

Freddie hums. He sits forward in his seat and tugs the files out from his waistband, holding them in the air. “Does this look like failure to you?”

Roger narrowly avoids swerving into oncoming traffic, his eyes widening. “Where did you get those?”

“Snagged them from the cabinet while you were helping secret agent man,” Freddie snorts. “I don’t know if there’s anything useful in here. I didn’t have time to look.”

Roger lets out a giddy laugh, taking the opportunity at a red light to lean over and kiss Freddie solidly on the mouth. “You’re the best. I can’t believe you.”

“Where would you be without me, really?” Freddie asks him with a grin. “Find us somewhere to stop and we can take a look.”

★

They manage to find an open chippie of all things, the neon lights glowing softly from where the storefront is tucked away in a narrow alley. The walls are practically dripping with grease, and the fry cook looks less than amused to have customers sitting in the cracked vinyl seats in front of the window this early in the morning—let alone two men dressed all in black, bloodstains not quite showing on the dark fabric of their clothes. Freddie offers him a sunny smile as he pays and gets a sullen grunt in return.

They settle at a small table while they wait for their food, heads crouched low and close together as Freddie opens the file. He winces as it immediately absorbs a small smear of grease on the edge of the table.

“You think this is what we’ve been looking for?” Roger asks him, tracing his hand delicately over the first page.

Freddie shrugs. “I have no idea either way. I didn’t exactly get a good look at it.” He squints down at the creamy paper in the low light.

**HEATHFIELD AIR BASE**

**Record of Transmissions And Monitoring Anomalies**

**_Jan-Jun 1989_ **

Below the words is a bright red stamp reading CONFIDENTIAL.

“Well, this looks promising already,” Roger says dryly, flipping the page.

“Are you sure?” Freddie asks him. “1989 seems a little old.”

“Exactly. Why would they still have this lying around?” Roger asks. “Besides, you and I both know what began in 1989.”

Freddie purses his lips. He can hardly argue with that. He turns his attention back to the pages spread before them: long paragraphs of analysis, dot charts and what looks like some sort of wave pattern, tables of numbers in small print, the columns crammed together to fit on the page—

“What’s this?” Roger asks, tapping a spot on one page.

“I don’t know. I’m no scientist.”

“No, read it.”

_ ADDENDUM,  _ _ §41b _

_Lengths listed initially matched readings from radar 274 at base R6. Following analysis and wave splicing this data has been rescinded; report is as follows._

What follows the text is a block of symbols and letters that ultimately results to gibberish.

“Great,” Freddie huffs. “What are we supposed to do with this, then? It’s a dead end.”

“It looks like it’s encrypted,” Roger hums.

“Do you think you can get around that?”

“I don’t know. Crystal might be able to. Most likely we’ll need to seek outside help.” He pauses as the man comes around the counter to plunk a basket of chips down between them. “Thanks.”

The man grunts at them, retreating behind the counter once more.

Roger sighs in satisfaction at the smell of grease, grabbing a handful of chips and shoving them into his mouth. “Even if we crack it, there’s the issue of not knowing what any of it means,” he says, still chewing.

Freddie grimaces at the sight. “Would the expert help come in before or after the decryption?”

“We might as well give him what we have,” Roger says with a shrug. “Crystal can work on the rest while he does that. I don’t think it would hurt to get a jumpstart on it.”

“I suppose that’s reasonable,” Freddie hums. “Whatever section forty-one B is, it might be decipherable even without the full report. It’s likely that our expert will come to the same conclusion that the air force has.”

“It’s likely he already knows about it,” Roger mutters under his breath. He grabs the ketchup bottle, smacking it a tad too aggressively until it begins pouring onto their food. “Nerd that he is.”

“That’s in our favor, and don’t you forget it,” Freddie says, eyebrows raised.

“Alright, fine,” Roger grunts. “You think he’s awake yet?”

“No. Think he’ll forgive us if we bring him food?”

Roger laughs. “Absolutely not.”

“Well then, in that case we have nothing to lose,” Freddie snorts, picking delicately through the basket in front of them.

Roger shakes his head at him, raising his eyebrows silently.

They don’t linger, leaving the shop just as the sun rises. Freddie hides a yawn behind his fist, but he doesn’t think he’s quite gotten away with it. He’s exhausted after being up all night, and Roger looks to be no better. The drive all the way out to London always manages to kick their asses, and if that isn’t bad enough then the breaking and entering certainly gets them.

At least this drive is a familiar one. They weave through side streets and alleys, Freddie keeping an eye out for the mob car that had tailed them earlier all the while. He never spots it, and they manage to finish the short drive into Kensington undetected.

Roger’s rust-stained mini cooper doesn’t blend in quite as well in this neighborhood, and Freddie can’t help but give it a derisive snort as he hauls his duffel out of the trunk. Roger is already starting up the steps to the flat, and he raps on the door just as Freddie joins him on the stoop.

“You think he’s home?” Freddie murmurs.

“Please,” Roger says. “I know he’s home.”

Freddie sighs, turning to look at the sunrise. It’s still barely the crack of dawn. He wouldn’t be surprise if they get turned away on principle. Just when he’s ready to call it quits he hears footsteps in the flat before them. The lock rattles, the door swinging open a moment later on silent hinges.

A face peers out at them from the gap, the chain still holding the door closed. “What do you want?”

“Hi, Brian,” Roger says warmly. “We brought you chips.”

“At six in the morning?” Brian says flatly.

Roger gasps, affronted. “So you’re turn away our generosity? After we’ve driven all this way?”

The door slams shut. The chain rattles, and when it opens once again it’s all the way. Brian steps aside to let them through, still clad in plaid pajamas and a faded t-shirt.

“Good to see you,” Roger says as he passes him. He takes a moment to appraise the t-shirt. “Didn’t know you were a Blondie fan.”

“One tends to accumulate such things,” Brian says flatly, turning to greet his second guest. “Freddie.”

“Mmh. Missed you, darling. I thought you were still in Tenerife.”

“Regrettably, no.”

“Not so much for me, I think,” Freddie replies. He stands on tip toe to peck Brian on the lips, mostly just because of the way it makes Brian blush. Today is no different, though Brian doesn’t even bat his eyes at the gesture. “You look good.”

“You’re insufferable,” Brian says, though Freddie can tell instantly that he means something along the lines of the opposite. “What do you people want, anyway?”

“It’s not enough to want to see an old friend?” Roger calls from the kitchen.

“You’re lucky you caught me here, you know,” Brian says, following Freddie toward the sound of Roger’s voice. “I’m supposed to be leaving town again soon.”

“Oh?” Freddie says. “I suppose it’s to both of our luck, then.”

“Why? What have you got?”

“First things first, the need to use your shower,” Roger says. “If you’d be so kind.”

Brian blinks at him. “You’re serious.”

“We brought you chips,” Freddie reminds him.

“Yeah, I—”

“First door on the left, right?” Roger asks, taking the duffel from Freddie.

“Roger—”

“Cheers, Bri, you’re the best.”

Brian splutters, sitting down at the kitchen table. Freddie, with nothing better to do, begins filling the kettle for tea.

“We really are sorry to drop in unannounced,” he says seriously as he peers at Brian over the kitchen island.

Brian scrubs a hand through his hair. “I can’t say it’s not an inconvenience.”

“I’m sorry, darling.”

“I have a life, you know,” Brian says earnestly. “I have a job I love. I can’t always stop to help you guys with—with whatever it is that you’re going to show me.”

“I promise we wouldn’t have come if we didn’t think it was worth it,” Freddie tells him seriously. “You know us. We don’t waste your time.”

“You waste some of my time. There are plenty of other things I could be doing right now.” He eyes Freddie’s clothes. “What have you two been up to, anyway?”

“Nothing you wouldn’t—”

“Christ, Fred, is that blood?!”

“It’s not mine.”

Brian stares at him. “Not _yours?_ What kind of an answer is that?”

“There was a guy in trouble, alright?” Freddie says soothingly. “We were helping him. I swear it wasn’t our fault. We weren’t even involved.”

“It sounds like you were a little fucking involved,” Brian hisses. “What did you _do?!”_

“Nothing!” Freddie insists. “Certainly nothing I can tell you about, so would you just drop it? We didn’t come here to talk about this!”

Brian frowns at him, holding his gaze. Freddie stares right back unblinkingly.

They’re startled apart by the bathroom door opening, Roger emerging in clean clothes and a cloud of steam. “Thanks for that,” he tells Brian. “Driving all night always gets me all sweaty. Fred?”

Freddie huffs, taking the bag from him and heading into the bathroom.

He doesn’t take his time with it, turning the water on lukewarm and stripping off his black gear before ducking under the showerhead. Brian’s soap smells vaguely like lemons, and Freddie scrubs himself down quickly before hopping out, drying off with a towel from the duffel and slipping on his everyday street clothes. The whole process takes about five minutes, but by the time he’s done he feels like a real person again.

When he steps out of the bathroom it’s to the sight of Roger and Brian hunched over the table, three mugs of tea steaming away between them. Brian is picking delicately at his chips.

“Have you showed him?” Freddie asks, coming over to sit beside Roger at the table.

“I thought I’d wait for you to do the honors,” Roger tells him.

“In that case…” Freddie reaches into the duffel, pulling out the files and placing them on the table. Brian reaches for them, but Freddie stops him with a firm palm on the center of the pages. “Just remember, whatever you see in here is far more important than how it came into your hands.”

Brian raises his eyebrows. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“One can only hope,” Freddie sighs, pulling his hand away in favor of lifting his mug to his lips. He sighs as the taste hits his tongue.

Brian shakes his head, glancing up at Freddie through his eyelashes as he flips the folder open. He freezes as he looks down at the first page. “Where the hell did you get this?” he says quietly.

“I told you it doesn’t matter,” Freddie replies.

“Doesn’t matter? Freddie, this is—”

“We robbed the Russian mafia, alright?” Roger huffs.

“ _What?!”_

“Technically we burgled the Russian mafia,” Freddie says dryly.

“That doesn’t make it better,” Brian hisses.

“It’s really beside the point.” Roger reaches across the table, flipping to the page that had caught his and Freddie’s attention earlier that morning. “Just read, okay?”

Brian glares at him, but he follows Roger’s advice a moment later. Freddie’s chair starts trembling, and he realizes after a beat that Roger must be jiggling his leg under the table.

Brian’s lips part as he reads.

“Well?” Freddie asks impatiently. “Do you understand any of it?”

“Yeah,” Brian says distractedly, still reading. “Yeah, definitely.”

“What does it mean, then?”

He looks up. “What?”

“The readings, Brimi.”

“This is…” he shakes his head, at a loss for words. “Can you decrypt the text portions?”

“We’re working on that next,” Roger assures him. “Can you at least tell us what the chart means in the meantime?”

Brian straightens, his eyes bright. “A space anomaly. I don’t know what it is or how it happened, but it was big. See this?” He points to some sort of wavy line graph. “These are radio readings. They’re distant, but they’re abnormally strong.”

“Radio anomalies aren’t exactly uncommon,” Roger says slowly.

Brian shakes his head. “Not like this. Look. It lasts too long. We still don’t know what causes this kind of event, but either way—five and seven tenths of a second? They’re usually little more than a blip, and still they’re considered to be unusual. And this,” he adds, pointing at a chart on the adjacent page. “This is more typical to what we usually see in length, but it’s unusual as well. It’s coming from the exact same direction, but it’s much closer.”

“So whatever it is came closer to us?” Freddie asks, frowning.

“I don’t think it’s likely the signal is caused by the same object,” Brian says. “Given the distance of the first signal, the wave would’ve had to have been created four years ago in order to reach us mere seconds before the second wave.”

“Can you explain it in plain English?” Freddie says weakly.

Brian purses his lips. “The short answer is no. The chances of an anomaly occurring four years ago, the cause of it moving on a precise path toward us faster than the speed of light and then the exact same anomaly occurring again? They’re very low.”

“Lower than the same anomaly occurring twice along the exact same trajectory, timed perfectly to fall within milliseconds of reaching us?” Roger asks.

“Quite honestly I have no idea,” Brian says. “This is unprecedented. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

“Is there a way to know for certain that these two waves are the same?”

“Not with the information we’ve been given. Maybe the encrypted portion would be of more help.” Brian frowns, sitting up straighter. “Of course, that doesn’t mean that you should decrypt it. You’ve already dug way too far into this. You could get in serious trouble, you know.”

“I can always trust you to be the voice of my subconscious,” Roger muses.

Brian raises his eyebrows. “So you have one, then?”

“Presumably,” Freddie says dryly. “Whether he listens to it is another story. Listen, we’ll see about decrypting it and we’ll try to get you a copy in the next week, alright?”

“Don’t fax me,” Brian says immediately. “I’m supposed to be leaving town again.”

“Where to?” Roger asks, frowning.

Brian shrugs. “Scotland, most likely. Some solar conditions are driving the instruments nuts, apparently. They want me to come take a look whenever I’m free, and I just so happen to be free.”

“Are those solar conditions anything we would be interested in?” Roger asks slyly.

“You mean are they being caused by aliens?” Brian asks, raising his eyebrows. “No. Sometimes storms on the sun just happen, actually.”

“Nothing just happens,” Roger says with a wink.

“Several thousand astronomers would disagree with you.” Deeper in the flat, a phone starts ringing. “Listen, I hate to throw you out. It was good to see you.”

“No, by all means,” Freddie rushes to say, standing up, “thanks for letting us impose. You’ve been lovely as always.”

“I’m just glad to see you two when I can,” Brian replies. He grunts quietly as he accepts Freddie’s quick hug, anticipating Roger’s slightly better a moment later.

“Likewise. Go answer that. We’ll see ourselves out.”

“Cheers.” Brian pauses midway through the dining room to turn to look at them seriously, walking slowly backward toward the ringing phone. “Hey. Stay out of trouble, alright? I mean it. I don’t want you guys digging around where you shouldn’t be.”

“Not to worry,” Roger calls. “We’re digging around _exactly_ where we’re meant to.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Brian says. He turns around just in time to walk squarely into the doorway, wincing as his shoulder smacks against it. Rubbing his arm with one hand, he rounds the corner and walks out of view. A clunk sounds from around the corner as he picks up the phone.

“Come on,” Freddie mutters to Roger.

Roger throws back the rest of his now-cold tea, following Freddie out the door and to the car. “Well, that was enlightening,” he says.

“Certainly,” Freddie retorts. He climbs into the car, digs around in the glove box and sighs happily when he unearths his favorite pair of aviators. The lenses cast the world in warm shades of brown and gold when he slips them on. “I wouldn’t say it’s hard proof, anyway, but—”

“Oh, you never think anything is hard proof,” Roger tuts.

“I’ll think it’s hard proof when you show me hard proof.”

“I’m sure Crystal can help with that, then. Are you ready to hit the road?”

“Sure,” Freddie murmurs. “You don’t mind if I sleep on the way, do you?”

Roger snorts. “What are you going to do if I say yes?”

Freddie hums. He leans back in his seat, making himself comfortable as Roger starts the engine. “Probably do it anyway.”

“Then there you go,” Roger laughs.

He directs them homeward, the quiet murmur of the radio punctuating the familiar rumble of the engine. The car rocks gently as they start down the road, and between one breath and the next Freddie is drifting off to sleep.

★

Roger is proud of his reputation as the town lunatic.

It had taken him a while to get to that place. Freddie had heard stories from the others of how he was in the early days, even if he hadn’t been there himself. Before Freddie met him Roger had been slandered, lied to, pushed away, framed as nothing more than a crook and all but tarred and feathered by the local police. It was shortly before Freddie met him that he finally found his true calling. Leaving town for good with his rusting airstream, buying up a little lot on the bluffs and surrounding himself with radar dishes, baubles of tin foil and the odd plastic flamingo, Roger had accepted their final moniker and worn it like war paint: the local UFO crazy. Somehow, it was a title that commanded respect.

That, or the fact that he also happened to be a gang leader.

The sun is just about setting by the time they reach Truro. Fog is rolling in thickly from the sea, winding through the streets and casting an eerie gloom over the pavement. Roger doesn’t linger, crossing through town quickly until they reach the road leading up into the cliffs, and after a few long minutes of driving they finally reach the trailer.

The little wind generator on the roof is spinning full-force from the marine wind, the airstream’s windows glowing warmly. Two motorcycles are parked outside between the bonfire ring and one of Freddie’s much-loved wooden lawn chairs. That explains the question of who is in their home, then.

Roger parks in the muddy ground just in front of the trailer, pausing for a long moment to rest his forehead against the steering wheel. Freddie reaches over to rub soothing circles between his shoulder blades, and Roger grunts his thanks.

“You’ll be in bed soon,” Freddie soothes.

“We’ve got guests to entertain.”

“You missed them just as much as they missed you, and you know it,” Freddie chides.

Roger snorts, but doesn’t deny it as he gathers their things and climbs out of the car. Freddie manages to only grimace a little when his trainers sink into the mud as he steps outside.

The door to the trailer creaks open as they approach, a figure framed in the warm glow of the doorway.

“We didn’t think you’d be home until later,” Dom calls down to them.

“Sorry to come to my own home unannounced,” Roger replies dryly. He frowns as he climbs the steps into the trailer. “Did you cook?”

“Yeah,” Ratty’s voice says from around the corner, and when Freddie enters the trailer it’s to see him sprawled on the couch lining one wall. “We wanted dinner to be ready for you when you came back in a few hours. We totally weren’t stealing your food or anything.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Freddie tells him with false earnestness.

Ratty snorts. “Welcome back, guys. How was it?”

“Oh, it went as well as expected,” Freddie says dryly. “Got in, found the file, nearly lost it because of Roger’s bleeding heart, got in a car chase because he decided to save the life of some MI5 kid who was drowning in the Thames—”

“What?” Dom asks, squinting.

“You heard me.”

Roger huffs. “It’s not like I had a choice. I couldn’t just let him die.”

“You very well could have,” Ratty points out.

“Not with a clean conscience. You should’ve seen him. He was outnumbered, and he couldn’t have been older than any of us. I’ve got no idea why he was there without backup.”

“He was probably poking his head in where it didn’t belong,” Ratty points out. “Something about that doesn’t smell right.”

Freddie shrugs. “It hardly matters now, does it? We dropped him off at the hospital, managed not to get identified, and I snagged the files from the warehouse on top of it.” He wanders over to Dom as he speaks, peering past her to look at the stove. “What did you make?”

“Canned soup and dinosaur-shaped fried chicken,” she says flatly.

“Chicken nuggets is the correct term, I think you’ll find,” Roger says loftily.

“Rog, can you explain to me why your diet is that of a five-year-old and not a grown man?”

“It’s a combination of laziness and his inability to cook anything that doesn’t come with instructions,” Freddie says. He reaches over to grab a nugget from the tray, holding the stegosaurus delicately by its tail and biting the head clean off.

“They were on markdown,” Roger supplies.

“Yes, the public is afraid to eat them.”

“Wait, back up,” Ratty says impatiently. “So you got the file?”

“Yeah, just managed to grab it,” Freddie tells him.

“Don’t leave us hanging! What was in it?”

Freddie glances at Roger, who’s already watching him. “We’re not sure it’s anything quite yet,” Roger says slowly. “A lot of it is encrypted. We were hoping to get Crystal to take a look at it. Do you know if he’s around?”

“He’s at home,” Ratty snorts. “Hasn’t been to the pub in a few days now. He’s got some passion project he’s working on.”

Roger’s eyebrows rise. “Passion project.”

“Mhm. Some hacking thing. I don’t really know.”

“He hasn’t said anything about it?”

Dom waves a dismissive hand. “Something about government files. He thinks he’s got a good lead on some information about more abductee cases that’ve been covered up.”

Freddie shoves the rest of his food into his mouth to avoid having to answer that. Nothing about abductee cases are cover ups; he knows that well and good, having been part of one himself. They don’t need to be covered up when people simply don’t care enough to look into them in the first place.

Roger seems to share his line of thinking, if not his exact thoughts. “What does he mean covered up?” he asks slowly.

“He didn’t say,” Dom replies. “I didn’t ask. He’ll come to us when he knows, I’m sure.”

“Right,” Roger grunts. “Do me a favor and have someone check up on him, alright? I want to talk to him.”

“Does this mean you’re kicking us out?” Ratty asks.

“How’d you know?”

“Come on, Peter,” Dom says with a smile. “We should let them get some sleep.”

“Sleep? After what? A nice vacation?”

“You’d know if you ever bothered to do any work,” Roger says. “Get out of here.”

“Alright. Jeez. Call if you need anything.”

“Yeah.”

“Goodnight, dears,” Freddie tosses after them.

“Night.”

“Bye Freddie!”

The door slams shut behind them, and a moment later Freddie hears two motorcycles rumble to life before driving off into the distance.

“I regret giving them a key,” Roger groans, leaning back against the couch and covering his face with his hands. “I didn’t realize it meant they’d be here all the fucking time.”

Freddie smiles to himself, pacing closer and holding out his hands. “Come on, grumpy. Get up.”

“No,” Roger groans, but he takes Freddie’s hands and allows himself to be pulled up.

“You always get like this when you haven’t slept enough.”

“I do not.”

“Yes you do. I know you.” When Roger doesn’t reply he leans closer, ducking his head to catch Roger’s eyes. “Hey.”

“What?” Roger asks, stifling a smile.

“Roggie.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Freddie grins, kissing him soundly on the mouth. He doesn’t let up until Roger sighs and relaxes into it, his hands drifting forward to hold Freddie’s elbows. When Freddie pulls away he’s smiling softly.

“Love you,” Freddie tells him. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Yep.”

★

Sometimes Freddie isn’t sure whether he found The Cross, or whether it was the other way around.

They’d become a fixture in his life at a time when he’d needed them the most, perhaps without even realizing that fact himself. When his family had turned their backs on him, his own memory couldn’t be trusted, he’d been out of money and connections and hope—at what was practically the end of his world, he’d had them. They’d found him after his accident, they’d given him a place to stay, and when everyone else had turned their backs on him they’d made a spot in their lives where he could stay forever, if he wanted.

He owes them everything, in short. He’s not afraid to admit that. That doesn’t mean that occasionally he isn’t struck with the urge to kill every last one of them.

Roger’s cell starts ringing at seven in the morning. It’s still charging, and Freddie has to grope for it for a long moment before his fingers close around the bulky plastic. Roger groans into his neck as he does, burrowing deeper in the soft blankets and grumbling something against his skin.

Freddie doesn’t even bother opening his eyes as he pulls out the antenna and accepts the call. “What?” he grunts into the receiver.

_“Well, good morning there, sleeping beauty.”_

“What do you want, Crys?”

_“I was just wondering if Goldilocks is up yet.”_

Freddie opens his eye to spare a glance at his sleeping boyfriend. “Rog, are you awake?”

“Get fucked,” Roger grunts.

“He’s not with us quite yet,” Freddie says into the phone. “Why? What is it?”

_“Just thought he had something urgent for me, is all. Dom seemed to think it was quite serious.”_

“Oh,” Freddie says, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, I might be able to help with that.”

_“Can I come pick it up? Ten minutes?”_

“Yeah, sure. I should probably tell you what else we learned.”

_“Pub?”_

“You’ll have to drive.”

_“I’ll come get you. Get out of bed. Your mother would be ashamed.”_

“Like she needs more reasons,” Freddie retorts. He hangs up to the sound of Crystal laughing, placing the phone back on the nightstand before leaning over to blanket Roger’s body with his own. “Roger, dear?” he whispers.

Roger groans into the mattress.

“You don’t need to get up,” Freddie says softly. “I’m just going to go walk Crystal through those files, alright? He’s picking me up in ten.”

Roger huffs but doesn’t respond, and Freddie takes a moment to roll his eyes. Roger has always been a heavy sleeper, especially after a long night. It doesn’t help that their bed is always warm and stupidly comfortable.

He manages to disentangle himself from Roger’s limbs and crawl down to the foot of the mattress, getting to his feet and throwing some clothes on. He brushes his teeth as he gathers together what items he’ll need, barely sparing a moment to give his hair a despairing glance. He doesn’t have time to do anything about it; not when he can hear the approach of Crystal’s engine outside.

“Love you, dearest,” he calls over his shoulder as he opens the door to the trailer, the file tucked under his arm. Predictably, Roger doesn’t answer.

Crystal’s motorcycle is glittering in the sun, the messy symbol of an ex surrounded by a circle standing out in stark contrast against the black paint. Crystal himself is donning a pair of dark glasses, and Freddie snorts when he sees him.

“Long night?” he asks, settling behind him on the motorcycle.

“Long enough. Didn’t get anywhere, though. I hope you’ve got something better for me than the bullshit I’ve been wading through.”

“One can only hope,” Freddie answers, then clings to him for dear life when Crystal revs the engine and sends them rocketing off through the dirt.

It’s not a long ride to the little pub in the heart of town, a dingy little biker bar that the majority of the townsfolk avoid like the plague. Defunct and charmingly decrepit, it’s all but fallen into obscurity just as its sign has fallen off of the face of the building entirely, leaving the property nameless. Tourists don’t know how to ask for it, maps don’t know how to label it and even its patrons refer to it simply as ‘the pub’. It’s practically invisible, and that’s the way Roger’s friends like it.

Crystal parks his bike on the cobblestones outside, flicking out the kickstand as Freddie stands and shakes the tension out of his legs. Through the dark doorway he can hear music; someone is playing the Velvet Underground, of all things. The glass fishing floats hanging on either side of the doorway clink as a breeze rolls by.

“I imagine you want some coffee before we do anything,” Crystal says, tucking his helmet under his arm and following Freddie through the door. The familiar smell of stale beer and fry oil meets his nose, and he spares a moment to wonder when exactly it was that that became a comfort to him.

“I wouldn’t mind a coffee,” Freddie says, and Crystal ducks behind the bar to pour him a mug from the machine. “Has it been busy at all while we were gone?”

“Not at all,” Crystal replies. He returns the pot to the hot plate and pours the perfect splash of milk into Freddie’s cup before sliding it across the counter. “That’s what Debbie said, anyway. I honestly wouldn’t know.”

“Been holed up, have you?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“What have you been working on, then?”

Crystal tilts his head, rounding the counter and making toward the stairs that lead to the second floor. “I honestly don’t have much to report about it. I figured I’d wait to tell you and Roger until I had something concrete.”

“I won’t tell him,” Freddie shrugs.

Crystal snorts. “We’ll say it has something to do with government files and leave it at that, alright?”

“Oh, don’t be such a tease,” Freddie chides.

They reach the second floor, the windows covered with gauzy shades to block some of the sunlight from the computers’ screens. The room is ringed with tables, every single one of them covered with bits of hardware and blinking lights. The soft whirring of computer fans forms an undercurrent for pleasant beeps and chirps.

“It’s really not important,” Crystal says, pulling out two chairs in front of the computer and absently brushing a few crumpled bags of Space Raiders to the floor. “Well, it hasn’t become important yet, at least. I’m digging up dirt on a guy.”

“Oh?” Freddie asks, his eyebrows raising.

“Yeah. Don’t tell Roger.”

“Your secret’s safe,” Freddie says warily, “provided _we’re_ safe, that is. Who is he?”

“I don’t know yet, but he knows us. I found files.”

“They’ve had files on us since our incidents,” Freddie says dismissively.

Crystal shakes his head. “It’s not just police reports. They’ve got more information now. More about what we all do here—they’ve got stuff on our families, our psychological reports, medical records—”

“What for?”

“That’s what I can’t figure out,” Crystal says lowly. “I don’t like it, though. I’m trying to figure out what they’re looking for, and you and Roger will be the first to know when I do.”

Freddie frowns. “That seems like it should be prioritized,” he says slowly. “I’ve got a job for you, but I don’t know if—”

“No,” Crystal says quickly. “No, you guys already risked life and limb for what you got. The least I can do is take a crack at it.”

“It’s a decryption,” Freddie supplies, pulling the file out from where he’d tucked it protectively into his jacket. He opens it to the page that had fascinated Brian so thoroughly, handing it to Crystal. “We’re assuming it’s military. Our contact wasn’t confident we could crack it.”

“Your contact doesn’t know me,” Crystal mutters. He props the file up on the table, skimming it quickly as he types into the keyboard. “What is it, anyway?”

“Some sort of scientific readings,” Freddie says. He leans back in his chair, taking a long sip of coffee. “We’re not sure what exactly it is. We were hoping the analysis could provide more information.”

“What do you know so far?”

“Something about radio waves and space anomalies.” He waves a hand. “I’m sure I didn’t understand half the jargon, but it seemed to be quite an interesting bit of reading.”

“Do you think this is proof?” Crystal asks, sparing a glance at him.

Freddie sighs. He thinks of Brian’s hesitation and his own skepticism. “Maybe. No. I’m not sure.” He traces the handle of his mug. “Roger seems to think so.”

“Roger’s our resident idealist,” Crystal supplies. “That doesn’t mean a whole lot.”

“Awfully cynical of you.”

“I’ve been hacking the bloody government all night. I can’t be blamed for it.” He finishes typing with a flourish, tapping through the bit of encrypted information he’s copied down. “I think I recognize this. It looks familiar, at least.”

“Can you crack it?”

“Yeah, yeah. I think me and Jobby wrote a program to crack the last one. It should work for this, too.”

“How long?”

Crystal lets out a puff of air, his cheeks ballooning. “An hour? Maybe two, if we need to tweak it?”

Two hours is better than he’d hoped for. “Alright,” he says, standing. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“You can stick around if you want.”

“It’s fine. The sound of typing and manic muttering always gives me a headache,” he adds, and Crystal laughs. “Call me, alright, darling? And thanks for this. I don’t know where’d we be without you.”

“Probably in jail.”

“Probably in jail.”

★

When Crystal finally produces the decrypted file it’s nearly noon and Roger has joined Freddie at the pub. He can’t say they’ve been terribly productive; Roger is hustling a few tourists at snooker, and for lack of anything better to do Freddie is doodling UFOs on napkins.

“That’s not realistic and you know it,” Dom says from the other side of the counter.

Freddie raises his eyebrows at her. “It’s cute, though. Look at it.”

She looks at him flat-mouthed. “What’s got Crystal all worked up, then? He’s been up there all weekend.”

“It’s not my fault,” Freddie says immediately.

“You saying that immediately just makes me suspect something even more, you know.”

They’re interrupted by footsteps banging down the stairs. Crystal appears, Jobby running right after him.

“Got it,” Crystal says, holding a floppy disk between two fingers.

Across the room, Roger looks up. “You did it?” he calls.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s see, then.”

“Hold on, mate,” one of the tourists says. “We’re not done here.”

Roger rolls his eyes, cursing under his breath as he lines up his next shot.

Freddie waits until Crystal and Jobby come closer before he speaks, keeping his voice low. “What’s it look like, then?” he asks them. “Anything interesting?”

Crystal takes a breath, but Jobby beats him to it. “I think this might be it,” he says.

“’It?’” Freddie asks, his eyebrows rising.

“We’ll need to run it by an expert to know for sure,” Crystal says quickly, casting Jobby a warning look. “It sure looks like it, though.”

“Looks like it?”

“This anomaly,” Crystal says, leaning closer and lowering his voice. Dom leans across the bar to hear. “Whatever it is, it’s not anything that I’ve seen before. It’s certainly nothing the air force knows about.”

“You know that for sure?”

“It says it right here,” Jobby says, leaning in. “They don’t know what the hell it is. The scientists don’t, at least. The higher ups…”

“We have no proof that they’re in on any sort of conspiracy,” Dom says flatly.

“Really, Dom? You’re still gonna defend that line of thinking?”

“I have more proof to the contrary,” she argues. “Besides, you’re always insisting that it’s international. None of my contacts in France, Germany, Portugal—”

“We get it,” Jobby snaps.

“Roger doesn’t believe you, either,” she points out.

“Well, either way the UN is in on it.”

“There’s no—”

“Guys,” Crystal cuts in, and they fall silent, “this hardly matters. It’s not the point, anyway, so just drop it.”

“What is the point, then?” Jobby mutters mutinously.

Crystal sighs. “That we don’t know what the hell this is. That they don’t either, and that they’re probably still trying to figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” Roger says as he wanders over, his game finally concluded. His cue is still clutched in one hand, held gracefully between strong fingers, and Freddie forces his eyes away from the sight.

“Figure out what caused your anomaly,” Crystal says in an undertone. “Whatever it is, the air force was at a loss about it.”

“What is it?” Roger asks impatiently. “You still haven’t told me what you’ve found.”

Crystal huffs, glancing around warily before tugging a page out of the file in his hand and placing it on the table. “Take a look, then,” he mutters.

Freddie leans closer. He recognizes it as the same page from earlier, the caption of the two charts now written in plain English.

_ADDENDUM,_ _§41b:_

_Signature 34B and 109C have since been proven to be the same frequency. Likelihood of this being a coincidence is approximately .0023%, +/-.0005. We substantiate these findings with the hope of alleviating anticipated doubts in this unprecedented discovery. Two anomalies with identical signatures have never before been recorded; moreover, the timing of the two signatures, with signature 34B occurring from approximately ten billion kilometres on July 2 nd, 1989 and the second signature, 109C, occurring on April 17th, 1992 from approximately four lightyears—_

“Wait,” Roger says quickly, and when Freddie looks to him his eyes are scanning the words again and again. “Wait, so the two signatures—”

“They were caused by the same thing, at nearly the exact same time,” Jobby says impatiently. “We didn’t get that at first because we were missing data. We didn’t know they were the same, and we didn’t know that one reached us nearly four years later. The exact calculations are written out in Appendix B. This is huge. This thing, whatever it is, managed to travel four lightyears in—”

“You’re sure?’

“Yes! We’re absolutely sure! It crossed incredible distances in mere seconds, and it was aiming straight at us.”

“We’re not one hundred percent sure,” Crystal says impatiently. “We’re not experts, and quite honestly I still have my doubts about some of this. The air force had their hands on this and they didn’t say a damned word. How did you even get the readings?”

“The mob robbed the air base for arms,” Freddie supplies. “They took whatever else they could find. These reports got mixed in.”

“And the air force kept this finding a secret for this long?”

“They do deal in secrets,” Freddie supplies.

“This shouldn’t be a secret,” Crystal insists. “This is a scientific breakthrough. Why are they keeping it under wraps?”

“The same reason they always do,” Roger says tiredly. “The same reason they want to keep _us_ under wraps. They don’t want proof. They don’t want people to know.”

“Then why haven’t they come to recover them yet?”

Silence descends on the group as they all think that one over.

“We better get it checked out with our contact either way,” Freddie says lowly. “Especially if we’re planning on presenting it to the others tonight.”

“You wanna call him?” Roger murmurs.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Alright. Meeting here tonight, guys.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Jobby says sarcastically. “I’ll get the word out.”

Roger nods, his face serious. “Alright. Crys, a word?”

Freddie takes the opportunity to sneak away, walking up the stairs on silent feet to the second floor. The computers are still beeping away, the screens all shut down and the fans still whirring. He ignores them in favor of picking the telephone up from the cradle hanging beside the window, dialing the number from memory. It only rings twice.

_“May.”_

“Darling,” Freddie greets, frowning at the white noise in the background. “Are you driving?”

_“To my next assignment. They want me in Bristol, I’m afraid.”_

“Can you take the long way round?” Freddie asks.

Brian snorts. _“Through Cornwall? It’s not exactly a shortcut.”_

“We’ve got what you asked for.”

Brian is silent for a long beat. _“This isn’t a secure line.”_

“I figured as much,” Freddie snorts. “Look, I don’t have any details to give you, anyway. I just think you’re going to want to take a look at this.”

_“I’ve got to be in Bristol, Freddie.”_

“I know. Solar storms and all that.” He worries the phone cord in his hand, pushing his finger between the winding loops of it. “It’s important.”

 _“I guessed that by the way you’re calling me,”_ Brian says dryly. _“You’re sure there’s nobody there who can take a look?”_

“Nobody we trust,” Freddie says. _They’re not you,_ he wants to add, but he doesn’t.

_“I find that difficult to believe. I’m not exactly one in a million.”_

“You are, though. Come on, Bri. It’s either you or it’s nobody. If you can’t do it now then we’ll wait, but don’t expect us to find someone else. Don’t try to get us to, either.”

Brian huffs. _“You’re still in the same place, right? Top of the bluffs?”_

“Of course.”

_“Tell you what: let me get settled there and I’ll be down tomorrow. We work at night, anyway. I can slip away during the afternoon.”_

“You’re a blessing,” Freddie breathes. “Thank you. I owe you.”

_“You most certainly do. And more than old chips this time, as well.”_

“Super Noodles?” Freddie offers, smiling when Brian laughs into the phone. “I’ll make sure they’re warm and everything.”

_“I can’t believe I’m still following you idiots around.”_

“I’ll pop open the Moet, then,” he says, fiddling with the phone cord again. “Hey, Brian?”

_“Yeah?”_

“Thank you.”

Brian pauses for a long beat. _“No problem, Freddie.”_

It is. It obviously is, but Brian doesn’t seem to think so. He doesn’t seem to think that travelling four hours out of his way is unreasonable—not when Freddie and Roger are involved—and Freddie can’t help but love him for that.

They exchange their goodbyes, and Freddie places the phone in the cradle as gently as he can for reasons he can’t quite identify. Somehow he feels lighter as he walks down the stairs.

★

The rest of the afternoon runs by as slow as honey, and Freddie can’t help but grow bored of it. Pouring over the files in the trailer is hardly his idea of entertainment, and he’s never quite had the mind for science that some of the others do. Time passes sluggishly, and his brain doesn’t work much faster. When he finally looks up from his stack of papers it’s to see that barely any time has passed at all. Huffing in defeat, he reaches for the pile of fashion magazines stacked on the end table and works through those instead.

He’s finished Vogue and is just starting Harper’s Bazaar when the trailer door cracks open, Roger sticking his head inside. “Hey. Any progress on those files?”

“Oh, yeah,” Freddie says, blinking innocently. “It’s interesting stuff, really.”

Roger stares at him, unimpressed. “You haven’t read a word, have you?”

“I read words,” Freddie says indignantly, sitting up. “I read plenty of words!”

“Yeah?” Words about—” he squints at the magazine spread open on the table, “—spring jelly sandals? Really, Fred?”

“The wording is complicated,” Freddie mutters sullenly. “You know I struggle with science stuff like that, and it’s—I mean, it’s utterly bone dry, dear. It’s a right pain.”

“That’s fair,” Roger huffs, leaning against the doorway. The sun is catching the gold streaks in his hair, and Freddie can’t help but appreciate the sight. “I did my best, too. It’s not your fault. This is more Brian’s thing than ours.”

“Let’s hope,” Freddie says. “I mean, we could slog through it if we really put our minds to it.”

“Why do that when we could get someone else to do it for us?” Roger huffs. He steps into the trailer, setting his bag down beside the bed. “The meeting is in a few hours. I thought we’d have more to show them, but—”

“This is more than enough,” Freddie interrupts. “You know that I’m right. This is already huge.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Roger mutters. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I’d hope,” Freddie replies. He stands, pacing closer until he can rest his forearms on Roger’s shoulders. He ducks his head until blue eyes reluctantly meet brown. “Hey.”

“What?” Roger mutters skeptically.

“It’s alright. Brian is coming tomorrow. We’ll have something concrete to show for it then.”

“We might have something earlier,” Roger muses, reaching up to hold Freddie’s arms gently in place with warm, comforting hands. “Crys says he thinks he’s got something.”

“Yeah? Is he going to talk about it tonight?”

“One can hope. The drama is killing all of us at this point.”

Freddie hums, ducking forward to peck him on the lips. “We should get going then, shouldn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Roger murmurs, sparing a glance back toward the magazine on the table.

Freddie rolls his eyes, taking his hand and tugging him toward the door. “Come on,” he says.

“Freddie—”

“Yes, I’ll get you spring jelly sandals as a late Christmas present.”

He just catches the sight of Roger fist pumping out of the corner of his eye as they leave the trailer.

Meetings are never held in the same place. Sure, the whole little group of them know to meet at the pub for the daily minutiae, if it could be called that.

Meetings are different. Meetings are arranged by word of mouth. Secrecy is key.

Freddie had accused them all of being a paranoid lot in the beginning, and he hasn’t quite been dissuaded from that. It feels a little silly to be sneaking around in the dark the way they are now, picking their way across the bluffs to the tiny staircase built into the cliffside leading down to the beach. He tries to keep in mind the times when Roger and the gang had been proven right: when random possessions had mysteriously gone missing, police reports had vanished and odd clicks and beeps had sounded through the line every time he picked up the phone.

He tries to remember that in general they’re rarely wrong.

The wind is blessedly still tonight, the sea shockingly calm. A bonfire is already burning to ward off the chill, the logs crackling merrily into the night as Ronnie and Josh tend the flames. Freddie steps gratefully into the comforting glow of it and holds his fingers toward the heat.

“Everyone here?” Roger calls.

“Still waiting on Crystal,” Jobby says. “He said to go ahead.”

Roger shakes his head, a sharp, irritated gesture. “Did he say when he’d be along?”

“He said he wouldn’t be later than usual, so take from that what you will.”

A ripple of laughter spreads through the group.

Roger grins good-naturedly. “Alright, then. I won’t keep you guys too long though, I’m afraid. Most of you know of me and Fred’s little field trip last night. We were after some files under the possession of the Russian mob.”

“Typical spy shit,” someone snorts, to another burst of laughter.

“Yeah, yeah,” Roger says. “Anyway, we’ll start passing the files around tomorrow. I know you’re all waiting for good news, so I thought I’d rip off the plaster. We think this is it. We think we’ve got proof.”

“What is it?” Ronnie calls.

“A radio signature. Something blipped out of existence four lightyears away, only to reappear in our solar system in July of 1989. Now, you know how that works with our timeline,” he adds, his eyes lingering on Ronnie, who nods solemnly.

“What’s that mean for us?” Josh asks. “What can we do with it?”

“Nothing yet,” Roger supplies. “Once we’ve got it verified we can look at leaking it. Local and national news first, and if that doesn’t work we’ll need to find a way to get it out online. Obviously we’ve all got—”

“Wait!” a voice shouts from the darkness.

Freddie squints into the gloom, catching sight of a familiar figure as his eyes adjust.

“Crys?” Roger calls.

“Wait,” Crystal huffs. He finally reaches the fire, stumbling into the light even as he gasps for breath. “We can’t go public.”

“Why not?” Dom asks.

He shakes his head. “I found—one second.”

Roger stands by patiently as Crystal leans his hands on his knees, breathing hard. “You good?”

“You should stop smoking, Crys,” someone calls.

“Shut up,” Crystal breathes, straightening. “Alright.”

“You gonna tell us what you’ve been up to all weekend?” Freddie asks.

“I’ve been trying to hack the MI5 network,” he says without preamble.

He’s met with stunned silence.

“I wasn’t going to try it at first,” he continues. “I didn’t think it would even be worth it, but I wanted to follow up on the missing case files.”

“Missing files?” Josh asks, frowning.

“Files about our disappearances,” Freddie supplies in a murmur. “They’ve been going missing from the local police department. Nobody knows why.”

“I wanted to see if MI5 was still keeping information on the cases, at the very least,” Crystal continues. “They should, right? Even if local police hard files can be snagged, national archives should be a little trickier.”

“Unless it’s an inside job,” Roger supplies. “Is that what you found?”

Crystal shakes his head. “I found something a lot weirder. Turns out they’re opening a file on all of us—the stories of our disappearances, psych profiles, witness testimonies, character witnesses—all of it. That’s just from what I’ve managed to decrypt, too. There’s loads more that I can’t touch.”

“So that’s a good thing,” Roger tries. “People finally give a shit about what happened to us.”

“That’s the issue,” Crystal argues. “This isn’t about us, or aliens, or even about MI5. The only reason I was able to swipe it at all is because it wasn’t behind MI5’s firewall. It wasn’t secured or agency-sanctioned.”

“What’s that mean?” Freddie asks, frowning.

“This was one person. Just one person, looking into all of us. I don’t know who they are or what they want, but this sure as hell isn’t government-sanctioned.” He makes eye contact with each of them, holding Freddie’s gaze for a beat longer. “I don’t know what’s going on, but we need to lay low.”

“Why?” Roger asks.

“Because whoever it is, they’ve got everything on us. If they want to disappear us they can. If they want to come for us they can. If we so much as squeak they’ll know.”

“They can’t possibly find us,” Roger tries. “Not out here.”

Crystal lets out a laugh that lacks any humor. “Roger, they already have.”

Immediate uproar follows his words.

“You’re serious?” Dom says loudly from Freddie’s left.

“Fuck’s sake,” Ratty mutters.

“What are we doing here?” Josh yells, his voice rising above the clamor. “We should be—”

“Enough!” Roger shouts, waving a hand in the air. “That’s enough!”

Freddie grimaces, silently looking at the faces caught in the firelight. Raw fear written across the eyes of his friends, and he shifts nervously on his feet even as the voices dull to a murmur.

“Crystal, how do you know that?” Roger asks above the noise. “If someone were looking for us, wouldn’t they have approached us in the past?”

“I don’t know,” Crystal says. “They have our addresses, or at least the ones that we gave to local police. Obviously those aren’t all up-to-date. As for why they haven’t tried to contact us yet, I have no idea. It’s possible the decryption will shed more light on it.”

“Do you have any idea at all why they’re looking for us?”

“No. It’s something to do with an old case file. That’s all I’ve been able to figure out.”

“Then what are the chances that us going public with this information is going to put any of us in danger?” Veronica asks skeptically.

“I don’t know,” Crystal says. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure. I just—look, it’s not up to me, but I think we should wait. If nothing bad has happened so far then maybe we should pretend that nothing’s changed, at least until we know what’s going on.”

Roger’s jaw ticks. Freddie watches the shadow of it as it plays across his face. “Anyone else in favor of that?” He asks, his eyes lingering on Freddie.

Freddie nods. “I am. He’s right. If nothing bad has happened yet then we have every reason to stay our course.”

“You just don’t want to go public,” Josh scoffs.

“That’s not true and you know it,” Freddie responds dryly.

“Bullshit. You don’t even trust in the evidence, do you? After everything, you still don’t believe in anything we’ve told you.”

“It’s not about what you’ve _told_ me,” Freddie huffs, “it’s about what I’ve seen. You should be grateful, if anything. Hard evidence is the only thing keeping us from the nuthouse, and that’s why we need to be all the more careful with it.”

“It’s right here,” Josh argues. “Why shouldn’t we release it, if we have it? If people are looking for us then we need to release the proof before they find us.”

“What do you think they’re going to do?” Ronnie asks. “Kill us?”

“So you’re with Freddie, then?”

“And Crys. And the majority of you, I’m guessing. Should we vote?”

Roger grimaces. “All in favor of keeping this between us for now?”

A cluster of hands rise, Freddie’s among them.

“Opposed?”

A scattering of people gesture, Josh giving Freddie a hard look as he raises his arm in the air.

Roger hesitates for a beat. “That’s it, then. We keep this to ourselves for now. Not indefinitely,” he adds as a chorus of people groan. “We’ll release it, we just need to think about how. We need to have a strategy here, or else we’re no better off than where we started. Alright?”

“Fine,” Josh huffs.

“If that’s all then I think we’ve wrapped up business here,” Roger says, to a general mutter of agreement. He grins as Spike immediately pulls three twelve-packs into the light of the fire. “You can all go about your night.”

“Fuck yes,” Crystal hisses, ducking toward the beer.

Freddie leans back as the crowd shifts, stepping into the darkness and making toward the stairs on quick feet. The clamor of voices fades as he makes his getaway. He almost thinks he’s home free, one foot on the stairs and a hand on the rail, when he feels a hand on his arm.

Roger is nearly invisible in the darkness, the silhouette of him catching the barest hints of golden firelight and his eyes wide in the gloom. He lets his hand fall to Freddie’s wrist as Freddie stops moving, a warm thumb tracing over the sensitive skin there.

“I’m just turning in early,” Freddie says, though his tone falls flat.

“Don’t run away,” Roger says. He licks his lips, quick and nervous. “I can tell when you’re upset about something.”

“It’s fine,” Freddie sighs, making to pull his hand away. Roger’s grip just tightens, not painfully but undoubtedly there.

“It’s not. Tell me.”

Freddie huffs. He stares him down, but Roger’s gaze is unwavering. “You didn’t vote,” he says after a beat.

He can just make out Roger’s frown. “Is that all?”

He huffs again, wrenching his wrist free. “Is that—of course that’s all. That’s enough. Don’t play like it’s nothing. You didn’t agree.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does. You didn’t want to keep the files secret.”

“Of course I don’t,” Roger says, but his voice remains deliberately gentle. “I’ve been working for this for years. We could’ve died getting that information. Of course I want to release it. Did you think that the decision to keep it a secret would come easily to me?”

“Did you think it came easily to _me?”_ Freddie replies. “What, so just because I want to handle this responsibly means that I don’t care?”

Roger grits his jaw, looking away, and it dawns on Freddie all at once.

“You really think so,” he says, his voice faint. 

“That’s not it at all,” Roger starts, his voice soothing.

“No. You think that I don’t care about finding the truth just because I can’t remember exactly what happened to me during—during the incident or abduction or _whatever._ That’s what you think.”

“Of course that’s not what I think,” Roger snaps finally. “This isn’t about that, anyway, so what does it matter?”

Freddie’s head spins. “Of course that matters. That’s all that matters. You think it doesn’t matter that you don’t trust me?”

“I think it matters that you don’t believe me.”

“Not blindly.”

“It’s not—” Roger snarls, then visibly steels himself. He takes a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it that way, and I think you know that.”

He does. Of course he does; even in the early days when they’d been so frustrated with one another that Freddie felt like ripping his own hair out half of the time, Roger had never meant any of his skepticism unkindly. Freddie knows that Roger is aware of the same about him.

“We’re letting the stress of this get to us,” Freddie says, his voice dull. “It’s been a long few days. How about we talk about it tomorrow, alright?”

“Alright,” Roger murmurs. “Are you going to come back?”

“I think I should head in early and get a good night’s sleep. You can stay out,” he says before Roger can try to come with him. “They all missed you, and I know you’ve missed them.”

“If you’re sure,” Roger says softly. “I love you, Fred.”

“Love you too, darling. I’ll see you later.”

“Alright.”

He lets out a long breath, turning to make his way up the steep stairs in the darkness. It’s not that he’s angry at Roger. This conversation is brought up almost constantly, always in different tones; sometimes angrily, other times resentfully, most often teasingly. It’s their longest running joke: Freddie’s status as a nonbeliever and Roger’s as a UFO fanatic. It doesn’t often grate on Freddie’s nerves.

Sometimes it does—rarely, in times like these when feelings outweigh logic.

He shakes his head as he crests the bluffs, starting across the mud toward the trailer. He’s letting his own personal feelings get to him where they don’t need to.

He unlocks the door, gratefully stepping into the warmth of their shared home. He rushes through his evening routine, taking a quick shower before rolling into the comfort of their bed and pulling the blankets up to his chin. It doesn’t take him long to drift off, and he sighs happily as sleep takes him.

★

He dozes for only an hour before Roger comes back. He knows because the first thing he sees when he pries open his eyes are the green numbers of their alarm clock.

The trailer is dark, the only light coming from the tiny window over the bed. He props himself up on his elbows to watch the door as the key scratches against the lock. It’s taking Roger a moment to get it open. He must’ve had a drink too many.

When it finally does creak ajar the light from outside illuminates Roger’s figure for only seconds before it’s closed again silently, the latch not even scraping against the frame the way it usually does. Freddie spares a moment to smile to himself, touched at Roger’s thoughtfulness as he lets his eyes drift shut once more.

Roger is shuffling through papers, likely putting the file back in its rightful place, when Freddie decides to make his wakefulness known.

“Are you still working?” he calls, his voice low and rough from sleep. “Come to bed. You’ve been gone all night.”

The noise stops, all at once. Roger doesn’t reply, and that’s when Freddie opens his eyes.

What tiny bit of light is shining through the window catches on the figure’s edges—short hair, slight shoulders, decent height—and it takes Freddie less than a second to know that the man in his trailer is most definitely _not_ his boyfriend.

His heart is racing all at once, adrenaline spiking and sending a wave of nausea through him. He sits up, not taking his eyes off the figure. “Who are you?” he calls, his voice coming out louder than he intended.

The figure shifts, not saying a word.

Freddie reaches for the edge of the blankets, throwing them back and getting to his feet. His hand reaches for the baseball bat at the side of the bed, but before he can wrap his hand around the grip of it a voice makes him freeze.

“Don’t move,” the intruder says softly. “I’m armed.”

Freddie’s breath catches. “You have a lot of nerve, coming into my home and threatening me,” he says shakily.

“It wasn’t my intention. You weren’t meant to be here.”

Freddie lunges for the bat, pulling it out and hefting it over his shoulder. A glint of metal shines through the darkness, and over the sound of his own racing heartbeat he hears the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.

“I’m serious. I don’t want to hurt you,” the man says in that same level voice.

Freddie tightens his grip on the bat. “You’re the one, aren’t you?” he growls. “You’re the one who’s looking for us.”

“There are a lot of people looking for you. I can tell you that right now. Look, drop the bat, alright? We can talk about this.”

“I don’t think so,” Freddie says. He’s all but bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready to move at a moment’s notice. What are the odds that the man is actually going to shoot him? He isn’t sure. He seems ready to, but he could just be bluffing.

The man takes a breath, ready to speak when there’s a shuffle of movement on the other side of the door. His head turns to it, the barrel of the gun dipping ever-so-slightly, and that’s when Freddie takes his chance.

He lunges forward, swinging the bat out in a wide arc. The man just barely raises his arm in time to block it, grunting as he catches the full force of it to the forearm. He drops his gun as the two of them go crashing to the floor, Freddie landing on top of him and swinging out blindly in the darkness. His fist makes contact with the floor, but he doesn’t falter at the pain blooming in his knuckles. His second attack makes contact with skin.

The man grunts beneath him, trying to shake him off, but Freddie tightens his knees around the man’s ribcage and swings for him again. He can’t see shit, and he knows that there’s no way this will end well if he can’t find the gun. He has no chance if this man is still armed.

The door snicks open behind him, a gasp immediately following. “Freddie?” Roger’s voice calls. “What the fuck?!”

“Get the gun,” Freddie gasps.

“What?”

“Get the fucking gun! He dropped it!”

“It’s here,” Roger says, his voice breathless. “Fucking hell.”

Light floods the trailer all at once.

The man is sprawled beneath him, his hair messy and his nose bruised and bleeding. That’s not what makes Freddie recognize him; no, that’s his eyes, the cool grey-green and the sad slant of his eyelashes. He’s seen his face before, looking up at him just as he is now, his features pinched with pain just as they are now.

“Deacon,” he says. “You’re John Deacon.”

“I know you,” the man breathes.

“Of course you do. We saved your fucking life. This is your idea of a thank you?”

“You’re the one in MI5, aren’t you?” Roger asks, closing the trailer door. “The one that’s been looking for us. You knew we would be there that night at the shipyard.”

John shakes his head. “I didn’t. It was a coincidence.”

“How?” Freddie grunts.

“Because we were both looking for the same thing,” John replies, his eyes serious and his jaw tight. “The files that the mafia stole—we were both after them. The only difference is one of us got caught.”

“Why didn’t you have backup?” Roger asks him.

“Why do you think?” John says flatly. “Look, I’d love to continue this conversation, but could we do it from somewhere other than the floor?”

“I don’t think so,” Freddie snaps. “You lost all room to negotiate when you barged in here with a gun.”

“Freddie,” Roger says softly.

It’s enough to startle him out of his fury. He turns to look to his boyfriend, only for Roger to nod pointedly to John’s side. Freddie glances warily down at the fabric of John’s dark turtleneck where his knee is pressing into the other man’s ribcage, only to see that the fabric is wet.

He recoils. “What—”

“You probably tore my stitches,” John grunts.

“Stitches?”

“Get off him,” Roger mutters. “I’ll patch it up. Come on.”

“He just tried to kill me!”

“And you’re going to kill _him_ if you don’t move.”

Freddie shoots John one last glare, but the other man’s eyes are fixed on Roger. His expression is unreadable, and Freddie isn’t quite sure of what to make of him—this odd, gangly man who can’t be much older than they are, who seems quite content with risking his life at any given opportunity for seemingly no gain.

He stands by quietly as Roger helps him off the floor, pushing him gently back onto the couch and pulling their first aid kit from a nearby cupboard. “How many?” he asks as he does.

“Eleven,” John mutters, pulling his shirt up to reveal a line of stitches running just below his ribcage. Freddie grimaces.

“You didn’t bandage it?” Roger asks skeptically. “Hell, you didn’t think to keep off your feet?”

“Two years of med school doesn’t make you an expert,” John huffs. “Especially not when you were there to study dentistry.”

To his credit, Roger doesn’t even blink. “You know more about us than you let on,” is all he says.

John doesn’t answer, grimacing as Roger runs an antiseptic pad across the cut. Freddie crosses his arms as he watches.

“They’re not torn,” Roger says eventually. “You shouldn’t be walking around yet, though. I’m sure they recommended you bedrest.”

“They did.”

“Well, you don’t need a hospital or any additional sutures, so you might as well start talking.”

John huffs, casting Freddie a wary glance. His nose is still bleeding, dripping harsh red across the soft pink of his lips, and Freddie only wars with himself for a moment before reaching to the end table and passing a box of tissues across the space between them. John hesitates before taking the box. He pulls out two and crams them gracelessly into his nose while tilting his head back, clearly well-versed with dealing with nosebleeds.

“Thanks,” he grunts, his voice nasally.

Roger starts at the words, looking back to Freddie and casting him a small smile.

Freddie shrugs. “Why were you in the warehouse that night?”

“I was looking for something,” John says.

“For what?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“I think it is, seeing as you’re the one committing larceny,” Roger says dryly.

John grimaces at him. “A file,” he says after a beat. “That’s it.”

Roger pauses at that, glancing back to meet Freddie’s eyes warily. Freddie knows what he means just from the look on his face alone; if John is the one looking into the cases of their disappearances, no doubt he was after the same file that they were.

“So you think we have this file, then,” Freddie says slowly. “That out of every single file in that warehouse, we somehow managed to steal the one that you were looking for, too.”

“Am I wrong?” John says.

“How should I know? You haven’t even said what you were looking for.”

John frowns. “I was looking for a scientific report,” he says. “It discussed findings at Heathfield Air Base from 1989. I know that you’re familiar with it.”

“And how would you know that?” Roger asks flatly.

John studies him for a beat, his face once again unreadable. “I really don’t think I need to write it out for you. We’re all on the same page, alright? We’re all looking for the reasons behind your—your disappearances a few years ago—”

“Abductions,” Roger corrects, pausing with his fingers pressed against the skin of John’s torso to look up at him steadily. “We were abducted.”

“Roger,” Freddie starts in warning.

“No,” Roger says slowly. “I think he knows. I think that’s what this is about. He believes us.”

John just watches him, his gaze unwavering.

Freddie shakes his head. “Why? Why would you?”

Grey eyes shift to meet his own. “What, you mean why would I believe something like that when you don’t even believe it yourself?”

“What, so now you’re spying on us?”

“I didn’t have to,” John says. “It’s all over your file. Of all the disappeared, you’re the only one who didn’t blame what happened on something extraterrestrial.”

“That’s not true,” Freddie argues. “Plenty of us said as much in our original statements.”

“And then rescinded those statements after the fact,” John insists. “The others all filed new statements, stating that their memories had somehow been altered and that recollections of alien abduction had returned to them months later. You didn’t. Why?”

“Does it matter?” Freddie says.

“I think it does.” He leans forward, Roger’s fingers faltering against his ribs as he goes. “I think it matters a lot, actually.”

Roger leans back on his heels. “Not right now, it doesn’t,” he says firmly. “This isn’t about him, it’s about you. Why are you poking around in our cases?”

“Call it personal interest.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“It’s going to have to be,” John says steadily. “That’s all I can tell you. I have a vested personal interest in what happened to you and your friends, for the sake of the other disappeared.”

“The other disappeared?” Roger asks slowly.

“You thought you were the only ones?” John asks. “There are dozens of people who disappeared under the same circumstances but were never returned. My interests lie in bringing those people back.”

Freddie shifts on his feet. He doesn’t want to say outright that that quest is in vain; that searching for those people will yield little to no results.

“What do you want with the Heathfield file, then?” Roger asks. He pulls out a new bandage, peeling the wrapper away and pressing it against John’s stitches.

John shrugs. “If I can prove the existence of alien life, maybe I can convince my superiors to put together a task force on this. Maybe cases like yours will be taken seriously for once.”

“That’s a pipe dream,” Roger says, finishing with the bandage and pulling John’s shirt neatly down, “but it’s a very nice thought. Agent Deacon, you’re free to go.”

John falters. “Excuse me?”

“Go ahead. You’ve been patched up, you’ve gotten your information and you’re now being politely asked to leave our home.”

“I didn’t get any information,” John argues.

“You got all that you can expect.”

“The file—”

“It isn’t here. I’ve never heard of Heathfield Air Base in my life.”

“I know that you have it,” John insists. “I have proof.”

“What’s your proof, then?” Roger asks.

John blinks, opening his mouth. No words come out.

“Great. On your way!” Roger says brightly, trotting to the door and opening it.

John stands, his eyes flicking between the two of them. For the first time since he arrived he looks genuinely confused, and Freddie can’t help but feel a little sorry for the guy. He’s not cut out for this kind of thankless, endless work.

“If you have any new information for me,” John says as he stands, “anything at all, please call me. I’m sure I have information that can help you, too.” He pulls a business card from his pocket, handing it over. “I’m on your side.”

“You call committing a home invasion being on our side?”

“Please, Roger,” John says softly. “Appreciate help where you can get it. You don’t have many allies left out there.”

Roger takes the card, flipping it over and over between his fingers as John steps out the door and disappears into the darkness.

“Well,” Freddie says levelly, shutting the door behind him. “I’d say that was the main event of our weekly entertainment.”

“Did he hurt you?” Roger asks him.

“Me? Not at all. A little bruising. That’s it.” He studies Roger for a long beat, taking in his haggard expression. “Are _you_ okay?”

“Yeah,” Roger says shortly. He shakes his head. “Do you suppose he really has information that could help us?”

“I don’t know,” Freddie says softly. “There’s really no way to be sure, is there? He could be bluffing.”

“To what end?”

“To get the file back, maybe. If what Crystal said is true then he certainly seems to have his own interests in it, though.”

Roger nods, his brow furrowing as he thinks that over.

“He was right about one thing, anyway,” Freddie adds.

“What’s that?”

“That we could use an ally or two.” He licks his lips. “I think we could use all the help that we can get.”

Roger blinks at him. He glances down at the card, his jaw working as he turns the piece of cardstock over and over in his hand. Finally he shakes his head shortly, jerking toward the phone.

“What are you doing?” Freddie asks.

“I’m calling Crystal. We need to know how much this guy knows about us.”

Freddie stares at him. “He was bluffing,” he tries. “Obviously he was—”

“There’s nothing obvious about it,” Roger says, dialing Crystal’s number from memory. “He said he had proof that we have that information. He showed up here the night that we told everyone about the file.”

“You think we have a mole,” Freddie says.

“I think we have a leak,” Roger mutters, raising the phone to his ear. “Crys?”

Freddie shakes his head to himself. He sits on the edge of the sofa, blinking at the wall across from him: the scattered charts, the readouts stuck to the walls with bits of old painter’s tape, the pile of books in the corner. Who would leak any information regarding their abductions or their activity? Who would be stupid enough to let it slip?

“Yeah. Yeah, I know it’s late. It’s important,” Roger says into the phone. “Listen, I’ve got a name on our MI5 guy. I need you to—no, it doesn’t matter. Not right now.” He’s silent for a beat. “Look, I’ll explain, alright? Can you just get me a list of his sources?”

“How do you expect him to do that?” Freddie asks tiredly.

Roger shoots him a sharp look. “That’s fine,” he says into the phone. “Yeah. Alright.” He hangs up, the phone clunking into the cradle with an air of finality.

They’re both still for a long moment.

“You expect too much of him,” Freddie says quietly, breaking the silence.

Roger sighs. “What do you want me to do? How else are we supposed to figure this out?”

“Not like this,” Freddie replies. “So we trace his contacts. What happens then? He’s an MI5 agent, dear. He talks to a lot of people.”

“One of them will have the information we need.”

“Maybe not,” Freddie posits. “Not if he’s got us wiretapped, or if he knows we stole that file because he saw it in the car.”

“Up your shirt?” Roger asks skeptically. “Not likely.”

“My point still stands. There are a million ways this could have gone.”

“Then what’s the solution?” Roger asks him. Freddie would have expected him to be snapping by now, as temperamental as he can be. He’s not. Instead he just looks tired, his shoulders hunched in defeat.

Freddie lets out a long breath. He stands, crossing the tiny space until he’s standing toe-to-toe with him. He reaches up to cradle his cheeks, standing on tiptoe and pressing an absent kiss to the top of his head.

“I think we should ask him,” Freddie says solemnly.

Roger huffs out a laugh. “You think so?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“You genuinely think he’ll give us a real answer?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” He plows forward as Roger laughs again. “He has information for us, and he has questions he wants answered. He needs to trust us, and I think he knows that trust needs to go both ways, darling. Stop laughing. You know I’m right.”

“Sorry,” Roger breathes. He pulls away, his eyes still lit with mirth, and Freddie can’t help but smile back. “I’m just—god, Freddie. You always have to go and see the best in people, don’t you?”

“Why do you think I’ve stuck around with you so long?” Freddie teases softly.

“Alright,” Roger says. He shakes his head. “Okay, we’ll give it a shot. Tomorrow, in the morning, after we’ve both gotten some sleep. Deal?”

“You can really sleep after all this?”

“I think I’m going to keel over if I try to stay up any longer,” Roger replies dryly.

It doesn’t take them long to get settled for the night—or morning, rather—and despite what Freddie had said before, he can feel fatigue weighing on him as soon as he lays down. Maybe it’s the comfort and safety of having Roger beside him, or maybe it’s just the excitement of the day. Whatever it is, it has his eyelids dipping immediately.

That doesn’t mean that sleep comes easily, though. Despite his exhaustion he spends long hours staring up at the ceiling even as Roger snores away at his side. Finally, just when he can see the light of dawn beginning to break in through the blinds, he’s overcome as unconsciousness takes him.

**Author's Note:**

> At the beginning of quarantine I binge watched basically...8 seasons of the x files. Then I wrote an x files au that was about 30k. Then I scrapped it. Then I wrote this. Please let me know if you like it! I don't have much beyond this first chapter other than an outline that's about 2k, which is honestly a nightmare to look at. I hope you are all well and that you're having an excellent end of fall! Stay safe x


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